


he's beauty, he's grace, he'll punch you in the face

by scribblemetimbers



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (no one is fooled), Alternate Universe, And while his limbs grew his temper definitely didn't, He'll deny that Otabek's sister is his padawan to his dying breath, M/M, Otabek is a Boxer, Yuri is a Figure Skater, and a bunch of other talented athletes we know, i would label this as a pre-relationship but lbr, if the little sister loves u then u are Good To Go my dude, wherein Yuri is still an angry ball of spite lovingly supported by his two dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9417008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemetimbers/pseuds/scribblemetimbers
Summary: Yuri doesn't know why his little student is in this boxing gym -- he's seen no less than five people getting bashed in the face -- but he has a Bad Feeling about it.OR: While Yuri Plisetsky HAS grown enough to bemarginallyless angry when someone insults and harasses him -   "The wisdom of age," Viktor would nod sagely, and Yuri would punch him in the leg -  he will totally Throw The Fuck Down when it's directed at someone else. Especially when he has a soft spot HE WILL NEVER ADMIT TO for them and they're, like, barely past his hip.





	

 "Are you sure your favorite pupil is in here?" Mila Babicheva asks as they enter the busy boxing gym. It was large, as was befitting of any part of the latest multisports complex here in Japan. It had a ring near the far wall, a section for mats, another for weights, and lining most of the walls that were mirror-free are punching bags of various sizes, all of which are currently being pummeled by men and women in various states of sweaty undress. "Because I'm telling you right now," Mila continues, ”This is definitely not a child-friendly environ --- ooohhh, _damn_. That must hurt.” She stares in horrified fascination as one sheepish boxer is smacked on the same side of his face again by an irate coach, who's yelling something along the lines of 'Guards up, goddammit!'

 "Most likely," Yuri Plisetsky says distractedly, eyes sweeping the vast space. "She mentioned something about her brother being here for boxing and how it was the main reason she's able to co -- _"_ he stops, processing what she said, and flushes. 

 "She is NOT MY FAVORITE STUDENT," Yuri snaps.

“Uh-huh, keep telling yourself that, you liar-liar-pants-are-on-fire,” Mila says in a sing-song voice. "Yuuri says she arrived two days into the program and you spent a bajillion break hours teaching her the past material." 

"It's easier to teach if they're all at the same level, okay!" Yuri says defensively, throwing up his hands. "And besides, it's not like her to miss a class! What if something happened?" He forces his clenched hands to relax. He is _not_ worried. He's just ... making sure. "Do you want Katsudon to rip out my _spine?_ ” And Yuri could try running, but who wants to pit their stamina against Yuuri Fucking Katsuki, anyway, without a gold medal at stake? Only people with a DEATH WISH, maybe. 

"Such a considerate son,” Mila sighs, and Yuri's squawk of outrage is derailed when he has to wildly dodge a lightning-fast noogie. Undeterred by her failure, the horrible woman only grins up at him and says, "Who would have thought the Ice Tiger of Russia has such a flair for teaching? _And_ such love for kids that he'd do it for free?"

"Who says it's free?” Yuri demands. "I should get paid for teaching in this stupid ice skating program for tiny little demons! I could be doing something productive in this short break! Why should I coach these brats for free?"

Mila looks unimpressed. ”Viktor has videos and pictures of you playing games against the kids and like, deliberately losing. You were wearing the pigtail braids little Mitsuha gave you.It was _adorable_. Yuuri's gonna have some framed."

"Katsudon is going to be a _widow_ ," Yuri snarls.

"Hush, Plisetsky. Be nice to your fathers," Mila says serenely, and only years of aggressive friendship saves her from the foot that snaps out to kick her at the shins.

"TAKE THAT BACK."

"But that would make me a liar!" Mila exclaims, and quick as a fox she uses his momentum to lock him in a loving side hug to the neck. It was about a centimeter shy from complete suffocation. Like the last hundred times this has happened, Yuri optimistically rages for a solid three seconds before giving up and just ... settling for some truly impressive scowling. Even after so many years and his own growth spurt, the woman is _still_ freakishly stronger than him.

"Okay!" Mila continues brightly as they walk through the gym. "So. What does your favorite pupil look like again?" 

"SHE IS NOT -- ugh, _fine,_ you horrible woman," Yuri says, exasperated. They don't have time for this. He notes the unusually large amount of people -- all of whom were, again, _unusually_ built like a brick shithouse. Has the general population always been so jacked? -- in the room and feels his mood plummet. "She has black hair, brown eyes, about yay height," He absently motions to somewhere around his hip, his eyes scanning the room. How are they going to do this?

There's a pause. And then --- 

 

"How distinctive," Mila drawls.

 

Yuri's left eye gives a dangerous twitch and he renews his flailing until she releases him, laughing. "I wasn't finished, you old hag!" he yells, but it was a bit like shouting into a void because a) there was a lot of punching and grunting and yelling going on around them and b) it's Mila Babicheva he's talking to, the eternal Pain In His Ass.

Grumbling, Yuri pulls out his phone and shoves it to her face. "Here! Sabina Altin, 7 years old with a missing tooth and a Tigger backpack. She told me she's gonna be in Princess Leia buns today because she saw the trailer and it was awesome." He glares at her. "Is that _specific_ enough for you?" 

"Awww, Yuri!" Mila coos, delighted, and he's about to ask a very confused 'what?' when she adds, "You have a piggy back selfie with her!" aaand, _fuck_ , he realizes too late that she's swiping left.

He lunges, ripping the phone away before she can see the next five. …Ten. (Thirty.)

"I hate you so much right now," Yuri informs her, grumbling, and shoves his phone back to his pocket.

"No, you don't," Mila says, "Not when I think I've found your little padawan."

"Where?" Yuri perks up immediately, twisting his head around.

"Oh, Plisetsky, you gotta ease off on the cat videos, man," Mila says. "Your eyesight is worse than your father's," and before Yuri can refute that unfounded accusation -- his eyesight is fine, _thank you very much_ , and Katsudon's eyes are probably damaged from too much exposure to Viktor Nikiforov and his stupid hair and HE IS NOT HIS FATHER, GODDAMIT -- Mila points to the far wall. "There, behind the boxing ring, near the far left corner."

Yuri narrows his eyes and strains to see past the boxing ring that partially obscures his view. At first, he can't see anyone at all that even vaguely resembles his hyperactive 7-year old. Against the wall, there's a woman pummeling away on a speedbag, her hands a veritable blur. A little farther from her is a man drinking from a jug the size of Yuri's head, and leaning on the farthest side of the ring was another man fiddling with his handwraps, headgear tucked under his arm, listening intently to a fellow boxer. There's no sign of a little girl.

Mila grabs his arm and tugs him to the side. At the same time, the two boxers move from their spot just _so_ and suddenly Yuri's eyesight is assaulted by an orange so hideously bright that it can only come from a kid's cartoon backpack.

"There you are," Yuri says, and the tightness inside his chest rapidly eases, the relief leaking out of his voice despite his attempts to dampen it. He tugs Mila towards the little girl. Sabina Altin was sitting on one of the benches lining the far wall, hugging the eye-searing Tigger backpack to her chest, fiddling with a phone. As promised, her hair was up in Princess Leia buns, lopsided and uneven and hilariously amateur, a testament to sheer stubborn effort powering through an obvious lack of hair-braiding skills. Yuri barely represses a grin.

His joy's short-lived, however, when a flurry of movement -- followed by a round of yells -- draws his eyes to the two men currently occupying the ring. One of the fighters sparring had gone down in a hail of fists. The other was triumphantly standing over him, gloves raised. 

"Fuck," he says, spotting the profile of the winner, who was walking around and pumping his fist in the air. Mila follows his gaze. “Fucking fu — ugh.” Yuri wrinkles his nose.

“Who’s that?" Mila gives a hum of appreciation when the man turns to talk to someone, presenting the defined back muscles characteristic of any competitive athlete, let alone a professional boxer.

"Richard Dickson." _Dick, son of a dick_ , Yuri thinks, and he wants to applaud the perfection of that statement if he weren't so busy being horrified at the sheer thought of a little girl so close to such a bad example of humanity.

"He's cute."

"He's an asshole," Yuri says flatly as they walk. "Watch." 

It was inevitable, really. The gaze of the person Richard's talking to -- his coach, Yuri thinks -- flits over Richard's shoulders and immediately snaps back, zeroing in on him and Mila. Panicked recognition flashes in his face. He turns back to Richard, grasps the boxer’s face, and starts whispering furiously. Whatever he says is lost, though, because the others surrounding Richard have already spotted Yuri, and a new wave of noise breaks over their ranks, some of them slapping the man on the shoulder and motioning in their direction.

_"Do not -- scene, Dickson! I mean it —!”_

Richard Dickson was not known as a man who takes rejected advances graciously.

The boxer turns, casual as you please, and when he and Yuri make eye contact his face twists into a smarmy little smile that does not bode well for Yuri's blood pressure. At all.

And Mila, who has also had her own share of this type of admirer in her illustrious skating career, goes, "Ah, point."

"Come on, let's just get Sabina," Yuri mutters. "Whatever she's waiting for she can wait for it in the skating rink. Yakov's most likely there already." 

Yuri Plisetsky met the boxer on his first day here in the MAPPA multisports complex. He and a lot of other pro skaters -- both retired and active -- were invited to teach a specific number of sessions for MAPPA's Summer Ice Skating Program for Kids, one of the programs the management organized to promote the newly opened venue. Yuri had arrived a day earlier than the actual program, as he was slated to teach the earliest lessons together with most of the skaters he knows.

In any other universe, Yuri would perhaps go on to happily live his life knowing nothing about all the other events MAPPA had planned for promotion. Unfortunately for him, Yuri discovered that there was some sort of boxing event when, in the middle of getting coffee with Emil Nekola and Phichit Chulanont, someone _pushes_ Phichit -- who almost spilled his newly made coffee on himself -- and steps into the line, effectively cutting in front of Yuri, who was the one that was about to be served.

A beat later someone else had screamed, “Dickson! How do you feel about winning the quarter —!” and the rest of the sentence was drowned by a new wave of noise as a gaggle of fans and reporters _swarmed_ over the rude interloper, forcing Yuri and everyone else even further back down the line.  

The first thing Richard Dickson did when Phichit politely called his attention to this fuckery was to issue an insincere, charming apology for nearly causing the Thai skater second-degree burns, the second thing was to backhandedly insult Emil's mustache when he joined the conversation, and the third was to aggressively hit on an irate Yuri Plisetsky in full view of everyone else in the room. The fourth thing he did was to make the face self-important people make when someone flat-out rejects them in public. The fifth was like ten different variations of Action Three and Action Four. And, finally, the sixth was a pathetic attempt to save face, in which he somehow horribly, condescendingly insulted Yuri, Japan, and the entire sport of figure skating altogether, all the while thinking that he was _somehow doing them a favor_.   

By that point, Phichit and Emil had wisely dragged Yuri -- who was two seconds away from throwing down the fucking gauntlet -- to the exit, saying something about just ‘skating through homicidal urges’ and 'being the better person' and 'Plisetsky, Yuuri will kill me if anything happens to you a month before their anniversary so you _cannot_ go to jail!'

The thing, Yuri thinks sourly, with people like Richard Dickson is that they think the first to fifth 'no' means 'yes' and the sixth 'no' followed by 'I will rip out your fucking eyeballs' means 'Take me! I'm yours!’

"Sabina," Yuri calls out once they're near enough to be heard, walking faster at the last few steps. He ignores the laser stare boring into the side of his head as they walk past the ring, keeping his eyes on the little girl.

Sabina Altin startles from her hunched position, looking up from the phone. "Yuri!" she yells happily, springing up to wrap octopus arms around him. "Why are you here?" She tilts her face up, looking at him with big brown eyes framed with thick eyelashes, and gives him a gap-toothed smile. "Did you come here to see a spar?" 

"Brat," Yuri says gruffly, poking her on the nose. "I came here for you." 

Yuri resolutely _does not_ acknowledge the dying walrus sound somewhere behind, but Sabina definitely does, and she startles, staring as his rinkmate comes up to stand beside him.

"Hello!" Mila says brightly, bending down until she's eye level with her. "My name's Mila Babicheva! What's your name, little princess?"

"Hi," Sabina burrows closer to Yuri in a sudden fit of shyness. "Sabina Altin," she says, and any doubts Yuri has about the kid recognizing Mila is banished at her wide-eyed, obviously starstruck stare and the twin spots of red on her cheeks. 

Yuri can almost _see_ Mila' face ascending into a whole other level of contortion from the sheer amount of cute, so in a desperate bid to save his own sanity -- he's spying her dreaded iPhone from the corner of his eye, slowly emerging from her pocket like a glitter pink sea monster -- he pokes Sabina on her nose to get her attention.

The little girl giggles. There's the horrifying click of a camera. Mila is completely unrepentant, even under Yuri’s flushed glare. 

Huffing, Yuri tears his eyes away and back to Sabina. “Why weren't you in class?" Yuri asks. “Did something happen?"

“Oh!” Surprise crosses Sabina's face, and she grins, squeezing him tighter. “I’m still your student? Really?” 

But before Yuri can parse the oddity of that statement, a new voice enters their conversation. 

“ _Yu_ -ra," says Richard Dickson's voice, rich and silky and completely fucking unwanted. He speaks fluent Russian - one of the many skills he tried to flaunt the day they met - so the nickname's definitely deliberate. Yuri's only surprised that it's taken him this long to use it.  

Mila, however, has both eyebrows raised at the audacity. 

"Ignore him," Yuri tells her, pushing down the thought that if he ever gets a hand on the Russian trainers who took Dickson under their wing he was going to _set them on fire_.Later. He has a kid to talk to. "Sabina," he says, looking back to said kid, "What did you mean by that?"  

"Yura," Richard interrupts again, and when Yuri rolls his eyes and turns he sees that the boxer's now leaning on the ropes, still in his gear, looking down at them from the ring. "Did you come here to cheer me on?" he asks, a lazy smile on his handsome face. The people nearest to them are doing a pisspoor job of minding their own business. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Wow," Mila says under her breath.

"What do you think, fool?" Yuri asks in return, his own Russian saccharine sweet, and he pointedly turns back to Sabina. He ignores the round of hoots that immediately follows his reply. 

 "Go on," Yuri tells her.

"Well," Sabina says, and she untangles herself from Yuri to sit back down on the bench, glancing uneasily at the noisy men on the ring. Yuri moves to crouch in front of her, and he's doubly grateful he brought Mila along when she goes to stand closer, effectively blocking the little girl's view.

It didn't stop the voices from filtering in, though, all of them a rapid-fast mixture of Russian and English. 

_"Isn't that the blonde dude a couple of days ago?"_

"We were on the way to the rink when somebody stopped us," Sabina says, fiddling with the strap of her backpack. "They told us something was wrong with my registration form and that I wasn't officially part of the ice skating classes.”

_"Oh, shit. He's the guy who turned you down! Richie! Richie! I'm right, am I?"_

"Who is the id-- who told you this?" Yuri asks, frowning. "Do you know him?"

_"I think it went viral, haha --"_

Sabina shakes her head. "I dunno, but it was fine — and I told my brother it was fine —he was going to be late to training if he tries to fix it and I know it's important to him -- but he wanted to — ” 

Yuri's frown deepens. Given the number of sports housed in the complex, the various facilities attached to it, the patrons it entertains everyday, and the events scheduled _just_ for this summer, all registrations and bookings and administrative processes had been moved to a completely different building. Sabina's brother would have taken a good two hours just to be entertained, especially since it's a reprocessing.

"Why didn't he just let you stay in the rink?" Mila asks, beating Yuri to the question.

" _Oh, I can see why he'd turn your old ass down, Rich. He is_ ho _\--"_

 She shrugs timidly. "Beka told me I should do that-- he kind of, um, argued with them until they agree to let me in while he checks,but I didn't — I didn’t want to get him in trouble so I just asked them to bring me back here to wait for him."

_"Nah, man, do you see his friend. Now_ that _is a sweet piece of-- "_

"Your brother's right, you know," Yuri says loudly, distracting her from the renewed round of hoots. At the look on Sabina's face, Yuri huffs and softens his tone and tugs lightly at one of her buns. "Brat. It's not like we were going to say no."

_"-- think they're part of the the skating program happening on the ice rink --"_

_"Ohhh, damn, is he a student or one of the pros? I heard they got a lot more athl -- "_

"Figure skaters are not athletes," and that was Dickson _,_ loudly cutting through the other conversations, crisply emphasizing each word. "All that prancing around frozen water wearing stupid skirts and skin tight shit. Pretty but weak. It's a disgrace, hone -- "

A hand immediately clamps down on Yuri's shoulder. "Don't do it, Plisetsky," Mila murmurs. "He's just trying to rile you up." 

"Do you think I don't know that," Yuri says through gritted teeth. He stands up and gestures for Sabina to do the same. "Come on," he says, and helps her put her backpack on. "You can wait with us back at the rink for your brother."

"I have a jug," Sabina says, brow furrowed and biting her lip. She starts to search. "I left it here somewhere-- "

Someone clears her throat to the side, getting their attention, and when they turn to look they saw that it was another boxer, the woman who was on the speedbag before. She holds out a bright orange hydroflask. “You left this near my bag,” she says, giving Sabina a small smile.

Sabina takes it and murmurs a halting thank-you in Japanese, making the woman’s smile a tad bigger.

"-- estly. Figure skating is not a damn sport,” Richard finishes.

A pause. _"That's not -- that's a bit wrong, man. I mean -- "_  

_"Shut up, Ben, and get me the damn gloves."_  

"Oh, so _now_ they say something," Mila snorts.  

"We have difficulty understanding all the Russian," the Japanese woman says, gesturing to other boxers behind her, Chinese and Indians and Filipinos and a whole lot of others. Yuri realizes this part of the gym is quieter than before. "But the English is pretty clear,” the woman continues, and she inclines her head to the direction of the ring, the elegant movement stretching the tattoo snaking on the sides of her neck. “For what it’s worth, Richard Dickson is a violent, delusional man who is well aware of his dismal chances in the coming fight. He's just clinging to whatever sliver of relevance he still has."

"You mean there's still some?" Yuri asks, light and drawling, and the smirk he shares with her and Mila ripples outward into the laughter of other people who heard as well. Yuri made sure he was loud enough that it included the ones around the ring.

_"_ \-- _amn, son. I like him!"_  

_" - wered my question! Who's he, man. Coz I swear-- "_

_“He’s nobody. Just some_ _two-bit figure skater I thought I'd give the time of day_. He's nothing." 

Dickson says the last sentence in loud, savage tones. If Yuri had been a lot younger, a little softer, a little less sure of his place in this world, he would have taken the bait and launched himself at Dickson, but as it stands --

He bursts out in laughter. "Keep telling yourself that," he tells the boxer as he follows Mila and his student past the ring. "Later, fool," and he issues a jaunty wave over his shoulder.

"Either he doesn't get out much or there's been too many hits on the head," Mila mutters, pulling Sabina close to her side as they walk. "Like for real, I am _floored_ at the stupidity," she continues, and Yuri snorts.

_"Bro, I don't see him giving you the time of day, haha --"_

_"Cram it, you fuck. He's a fucking bitch -- "_

And then --

"He is not!" Sabina suddenly bursts out in angry Russian, ripping away from Mila in a rush of strength. Richard steps back in surprise as the little girl stomps her way back to the ring. ”Yuri is a great coach and a great skater!" she yells, and, _shit_ , Yuri totally forgot that Sabina speaks fluent Russian aside from English and Kazakh.

_"_ But _you!_ " Sabina is still yelling as Yuri scrambles to go after her. She stops right in front of Dickson, and their height difference is made all the more obvious by the platform and the ring. "You are such a — a — a _STUPIDHEAD!!!”_   

"Oh dear god, there's two of them," Mila says faintly behind him, but Yuri's too busy skidding to a stop and scooping Sabina up in one fluid motion. In any other event, it would have been hilarious. And he would absolutely be laughing his ass off. As it stands, though, Yuri has a solid thirteen years on Sabina Altin so he has _got_ to be the adult here. 

"Leave it, Sabina," Yuri murmurs to her temple as he whisks her away. "You don't fight with stupidheads, alright. Your head will just explode and your hair's too nice for that."

“Sorry, Yuri,” Sabina says sheepishly, wrapping her arms his neck. Then, she shyly adds, "Beka did my hair today."

"Your brother sounds very cool," Yuri says seriously, and he does. He really does. He knows from the little girl that her brother basically raised her. He taught her to read and write and helps her with school and he tries and hilariously fails to do her hair and he signed her into figure skating classes the minute she showed interest. The only thing Sabina Altin seems to love with all her heart besides the ice is her brother, which — 

"Ah, Altin's little sister," Dickson cuts in silkily, "How old are you again?"

Yuri freezes, his hackles immediately rising. Why does this -- stupidhead! -- know his pupil???

"Seven," Sabina answers, her grip tightening. He can almost _feel_ the defiant glare she sends Dickson's way.

"So young," the boxer muses, "And yet: Aren't you a little old to start skating, little girl? Especially competitively?" 

("Shut the hell up, Dickson," Mila's voice rings out, rising over the noise, shutting random conversationsdown as her tone sparks interest.)

Yuri involuntarily tightens his hold around Sabina, who, predictably, stiffens. It was one of the fears the little girl had indirectly admitted to the first time they met, when Yuri spent a solid nerve-wrecking hour trying to coax her out of her shell and just _talk_ to him. It had taken even longer hours and the full breadth of his own patience for her to demonstrate what she knows.

He looks over his shoulder to give the boxer a venomous glare.

"Most champions start young. Young and with individual coaches to boot," Dickson says, ignoring Mila's shout. He dodges and fights any attempt to pull him back from the sides. "And you're _here_ , and with _Yura_ too as a coach, barely into his twenties -- "

Sabina Altin had taken up ballet and various dance classes before stepping on the ice a mere four months before. She had thought that, with such a short history, she’d easily embarrass herself in front of all her new (and younger) classmates.

" -- wouldn't be surprised if you'd quit young," Dickson continues, oblivious to or indifferent to the general unease that's sweeping over their area. "And figure skaters stop so _early_ as it is, such weak bodies -- "

"You're going to be great," Yuri says fiercely, and he quickens his steps, going to Mila's waiting form. "Don't listen to him." 

And the thing is that he's not even lying. His patience then had paid off. Yuri had taken one look at the way his newest charge skates and hollered for Yakov to get his ass into the rink because he knows, he _knows_ in his bones that they have something that can be legendary gliding her way on the ice, and he'd be damned if they let that go.

"-- wow!" Dickson says, pitching his voice louder, "Suddenly I wonder if Altin's only coddling his little sister's childish dreams-- "

"Dickson, what the _fuck_ ," the Japanese boxer's voice barks angrily. "Shut up! You're a grown fucking man --" 

But Yuri doesn't hear the rest of what’s said. There's a watery "that's a lie!” near his right ear, and the little girl in his arms trembles, buries her face on the side of his neck, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his jacket. "Beka won't lie to me," she whispers, her voice muffled, and when Yuri scents the salt of tears and feels the first touch of wetness seep through his clothing something inside him just _breaks_.

"Yeah, okay, that's it," Yuri says loudly, and he abruptly stops walking.

"Yuri?" Sabina asks, confused, and then she yelps when Yuri -- as carefully as he can --transfers his grip to her armpits and holds her at arm's length. 

“Listen. Johnny Weir started skating at age 12 and Stéphane Lambiel started at age 7 and Kim Yuna started skating at age six," Yuri says without preamble, looking her in the eye. " _I_ started skating at age eight -- for real! Stop doubting your elders, brat," Yuri huffs, smiling slightly at the expression on her face before he tells her, much more seriously, "You're young, Sabina, and you have so much potential. So you and me, the old man and even Mila and everyone else who believes in you -- including, especially, your _Beka --_ will work hard and _rub your success in stupidhead's face, alright?_ " He punctuates this with a gentle shake.

He holds her red-rimmed stare and prods -- “Sabina?” -- when she doesn’t answer.

"... Okay," Sabina finally says, giving him a small tremulous smile.

"Good!" Yuri says brightly. "Now, the best rule in any competitive sport, brat, is to _never ever underestimate anyone ever_." And he abruptly turns to Mila, whose eyes widen at whatever she sees on his face. It was the only warning she got before Yuri drops the seven-year old in her surprised arms. "So! Watch me beat stupidhead at his own turf."

"Yuri - " Mila starts, alarmed.

"HOLD MY STUDENT, BABICHEVA!” Yuri roars, and this time he's the one who stalks back to the ring, stripping off his jacket and dumping it somewhere on the floor.When he gets near enough he grasps the top rope and vaults over it in a single, graceful leap, landing in a perfect crouch inside the ring. Dickson takes two steps back and the rest scatter. Yuri's only marginally pissed he missed crushing the man by about an inch.

That's okay. This way's better.

The look on the boxer's face is priceless. "You're serious?" Richard asks, looking highly entertained. "Have you ever even _fought_ before?"

"Hm," Yuri replies, his tone deliberately blasé. He pulls the scrunchie off his wrist.

"Oh, what did you do?" Dickson's smiling now, cocksure arrogance replacing incredulity. "Bit of taebo before ballet? Split kicks before skating?"

Yuri ties his hair in a high ponytail. He impatiently brushes back the few strands that fall on his face. He really should get his hair cut right, seriously, it's starting to become annoying. 

"Have it your way then," Dickson says when he doesn't reply. "But I don't fight for free." He's staring at Yuri’s features, at Yuri’s body, with a look that just fuels the anger in his belly. "When _I win -- "_

"I don't fucking care," Yuri says flatly. "When you lose, you take back everything you said, you don't speak to me again ever, and you apologize for being an absolute fucking dick to a goddamn _kid_." 

Something ugly flashes across Dickson's face before it's quickly rearranged into patronizing reproach. ”You're so _angry,_ Yura. That's not a good thing to have for any person, you know, let alone one who supposedly competes." His eyes glitter. "Or one who's about to get into his first spar."

And Yuri thinks, furious and savage: That is so fucking _stupid_. Yuri’s intimately familiar with anger. It was just -- an emotion! Like love and grief and hope and all the other messy things that had been summoned and wrangled by various people in his life, using it as fuel to accomplish brilliant feats, sometimes even bypassing mere brilliance and going straight to superhuman fuckery.Hell, Yuri's survived his childhood by sheer anger and a fuckton of spite. It's not about the lack of anger, you stupid man, it's about controlling it!

"Okay," Dickson says grandly, cutting off his chain of thought. "Fine. For this, I am honored to be your first fighting lesson _and_ your introduction to anger management class."

Yuri Plisetsky grew up with poverty dodging his wake, doing everything he can to help provide for his ailing grandfather. He stole and lied and fought -- for food and money and medicine and space -- and when he got them in his hands he still fought because there were those who wanted to take them away from him. During the worst weeks of his grandfather's illness, he stopped fighting for something and just — started fighting for the hell of it (which made everyone happier because he was _good_ at it and, hey, look, a potential cash cow), and maybe that would have been it for him if he hadn't stumbled into a skating rink at the dead of night, bruised and bloody, and unknowingly interrupted a crabby old man yelling at a boy to 'STOP BAITING THE INTERNATIONAL SKATING UNION, VITYA!!!'

"On the count of three."

The years after that were a different kind of battle: a battle to be acknowledged, to be taken seriously. A fight to prove to everyone that a late bloomer with nothing to his name -- no money and no sponsors and plucked practically from the streets--can go and be one of the top figure skaters in the whole goddamn world and _fuck anyone who thinks otherwise._

"Three --"

In short: Fighting would have been it for him had he not stepped into Yakov Feltsman's rink and felt that spine-tingling feeling that he was _home_. 

"-- two --"

So, seriously, the last thing Yuri Plisetsky doesn't know is how to _fight_.

“One." 

Yuri pointedly twists to look behind his shoulder, catches Sabina's gaze, and rolls. His. Eyes.

" --- esson number one, babe," Dickson's voice pierces through his thoughts. "Never take your eyes off your opponent."

Yuri sees the punch coming from the corner of his eye, the bright red glove coming closer and closer, but the thing was that before now, Yuri never would have thought a punch could be described as _condescending as all fuck._  

Which: FINE. 

Yuri explodes into action, grabbing the arm midpunch. In the same movement he steps in, bends, and lands an uppercut that digs _straight_ up Dickson's solar plexus-- the surprised exhale of air sounds like _music_ to his ears --- forcing the other man to curl in. Yuri doesn't wait. He twists -- back to the boxer's chest, shoulder digging into his armpit -- grasps Dickson's outstretched arm with both hands now, and with an enraged cry he heaves Dickson up and up and _over_ his shoulder and straight down to the floor with a loud, mighty ---

 

_SLAM!_

 

A collective _oooooohhhhh_ sweeps the crowd. It was like the whole structure winced. 

 Yuri doesn't hear it. He's too busy dropping to ground, trapping Dickson in an armbar.

(The boxer had enough sense to lock his wrists, but --- )

"You have no right to call me 'Yura'," Yuri hisses. The man is thrashing to get to his knees. One of Yuri's arms rips away from the armbar and wraps around a flailing leg. "My name is not 'babe' and it is definitely not ‘bitch’. It’s Yuri Plisetsky; I am the best damn figure skater in the world, and I can _crush your stupid head with my thighs_."

The move had shifted Yuri to his side, taking the pressure of his legs off Dickson's upper body. The other man immediately surges to sit up -- 

"YIELD!" Yuri bellows, and with a heave he slams Dickson back to the ground with his legs.

Two seconds later he feels the tapping he's looking for on his thighs, fast and frantic.

Yuri untangles himself and stands up."My terms start now," he says as clear and loud as he can, his chest heaving with rage and exertion, and it was only then that he notices his stunned audience. 

Everyone's attention was on the ring.

"What are you people looking at?" Yuri snaps, glaring. "The fucker never said we had to _box_."

And like a tableau breaking, a few things happen in rapid succession: Sabina lets out a wild laugh, followed by Mila, and then loud as a sudden gunshot the gym erupts into cheers and claps. Someone hands Yuri back his jacket. People are swarming over Dickson's form, and then --

\-- a new voice cuts straight through the din and nearly shatters his eardrums.

"PLISETSKY!!!!" Yakov Feltsman roars from the entrance.

Ah, _fuck_.

 

\--

 

He's kicked out of the hastily cobbled damage control meeting with Team Dick(head), MAPPA management, and Yakov Feltsman a mere fifteen minutes after it starts.

"It's over already?" Mila asks him in surprise when he stomps back to the skating rink, where he has been explicitly told to 'wait there, Yuri, before you fight _all_ of Team Dick’, courtesy of a gruff Yakov, who had squeezed his shoulder both in warning and support. It was a smart move because Yuri had been thinking about launching himself across the room towards the man - he doesn't know who, he doesn't care -- who dared to suggest that _Yuri_ was just jealous of Richard Dickson so _he_ started the fight AND that he shouldn't be part of the discussion because he was so emotionally compromised. 

"No," Yuri says, fuming, and collapses on the seat next to her. He tells her why in angry bursts.  

Mila lets out a peal of laughter. "Yuri, you _would_ fight all of them. Maybe even at the same time."  

"THEY WERE JUST SO -- UGH," Yuri yells, crossing his arms. "They better not spin any sobstory bullshit about _Dickson_ being the victim!"

"You're trending, you know," Mila offers, and she shows him her iPhone. She's liked about a dozen instagram posts about it, coming from different angles of the gym. They all had thousands of likes. "A lot of eyewitnesses, lot of videos, and a _lot_ of memes. They'll have a hell of a time lying." She smiles brightly. "Oh, you should go back and show them the one with that Jason DeRulo song! Or the one with the Mortal Kombat voice going ' _FaaaaaTALITY!'_ when you flipped Dickson your shoulder!"

"I know it's trending," Yuri says, hunching in his seat. "That's what Viktor told me before I left. He said they'll use them all during the meeting." He’d even shown Yuri some of them, mostly the ones with the incredibly clear audio. Yuri doesn’t doubt the ‘all’ part, which was most likely already sorted by type, popularity, and maximum impact. Sometimes, he forgets that Viktor is basically Ice Skating Jesus, even when already retired. His reach was ridiculous. 

"Viktor?" Mila echoes, eyebrows raising in surprise. "He was there? He's been saying he wants to try out the new sushi restaurant with Yuuri today." 

"Yeah, he arrived just before I was asked to leave," Yuri says. "He brought Katsudon with him. They're so weird who the hell knows what goes on in their heads? The sushi probably sucked.” But even as he said it he frowns. 

_("Don't worry, Yurio!" Viktor says. "We'll take care of it!" His grin is bright. Very bright.)_

"There was just something... _off_ about the two of them when they talked to me," Yuri mutters.

_(Behind Viktor, holding his husband’s hand, was two-time Grand Prix Champion Katsuki Yuuri, who only offers him a small, reassuring smile. His glasses gleamed.)_

Yuri shudders. Then —

"Aw, Yuri. ~ _I_ know what it is.”

"Hm?" Yuri asks automatically, distracted, before he freezes, registering the sing-song tone, and when he looks at her, his rinkmate's eyes are twinkling.

"PATERNAL L --"

_"SHUT UP, OLD HAG!”_

"I liked the one with the Kill Bill sirens," a new voice says, breaking their conversation. 

Yuri twists.

There’s another man walking towards them. ”It was the video Viktor Nikiforov played when I dropped by the meeting," the newcomer adds. He stops a respectable distance away, his hands stuffed in a bomber jacket and his stance a little stiff. “Yakov Feltsman switched it to a better one." 

Mila cocks her head. "What's that?" 

"Madoka Takahashi's twitter account. She was the Japanese boxer who talked to Sabina."

"You're Sabina's brother," Yuri says, marveling at the man's features. His face was a little sharper, more angular and defined, and his black hair is much less flashily styled -- a simple undercut -- but he has the same brown eyes and the same nose as his sister. He even has a similar divot at the chin.

He nods. "And you're one of my sister's teachers. Yuri Plisetsky." His eyes flicker to Mila. "And you're Mila Babicheva. Sabina speaks highly about you too."

"The one and only," Yuri says, giving him a sharp smile as Mila gives him a pleased wave. 

"My name is Otabek. Otabek Altin," he says, shaking their hands. When he makes eye contact with Yuri he stops, hesitates, before a determined expression crosses his face and he says, "Thank you. For doing -- what you did." He turns to Mila too. "Both of you."

"Forget about it," Yuri snorts, waving the gratitude away Mila nods in agreement. "I would literally _pay_ to do it ten more ti -- " he stops, noting a distinct lack of mini-Otabek. “Where is Sabina, anyway?”

At the mention of his sister, Otabek lets out a small smile. "With Madoka Takahashi, Phichit Chulanont, and a selfie stick," he says, and Yuri snorts at the image. 

"Oh, how the internet will love that," Mila murmurs.

“I didn't want to bring her to the meeting,” Otabek says. “They offered to get her some ice cream. I was on the way back to them when I saw you guys here." 

Yuri perks up. ”The meeting's done? What's the verdict on Dickson?"  

Otabek's mood immediately sours. "They didn't let me stay," Anger sparks in his eyes. "They said I was too -- involved." 

"You're her brother," Mila says, incredulous. "They should be happy you didn't murder him!" 

The expression on Otabek's face makes it clear the option is still on the table, and he says, "The last I heard, Dickson's going to issue an apology in his social media accounts, maybe donate to some organizations, but that's about it." 

Yuri makes a disgusted noise. "A half-assed script and parting from pocket change. Not even a press conference. Or a suspension! He bullied a kid and insulted an _entire sport_!"

Otabek regards him seriously. ”He doesn't speak for all of us. I swear,” he says with quiet conviction. "Figure skating's a legitimate sport, and it's stupid to think otherwise just because it also happens to be beautiful."

"What about Yuri? Did you hear anything?" Mila pipes up, thankfully distracting Yuri from the sudden, unbidden, _annoying_ warmth he feels in his chest at Otabek's words. What the _hell_ \--

"The manager was gunning for suspension from the next season —" 

\-- the warmth turns to stone. 

"EXCUSE ME?" Yuri demands, his voice going shrill at the end. He springs up from his seat. 

"No, no, listen," Otabek says quickly, shaking his head. "It's unlikely. Katsuki pointed out that unless their client confesses to actual injury it's too much of a punishment. Overkill. And that," he throws Yuri an amused look, "is... definitely not something Dickson's going to admit. Ever. His opponent's just a figure skater, after all," he says lightly. "Katsuki played Dickson like a fiddle. It was pretty impressive.” Admiration colored his tone. 

"Oh," Yuri says, immediately feeling a bit sheepish at his sudden outburst. He sits back down. 

"Of course, he wouldn’t!” Mila bursts out derisively. “Admitting to injury could lead to withdrawal from the Trials.” She flips her hair, rolling her eyes, and and reclines back in her seat.“Imagine: you combine this with his upcoming fight and all the shit-talking he's done and _then_ he suddenly backs out? He'd be disgraced and labeled a coward."  

"His team did say they want you to never approach, speak, or even look at Dickson again," Otabek offers, his eyes crinkling into a smile. "Or something close to that. Maybe a restraining order? Nikiforov expressed full confidence that you'll comply." 

"The man has three restraining orders from three different exes," Mila mutters, astounded. ”W-- _ow_."

“Yeah, I’ll comply, alright!” Yuri makes indignant noises. “And those were my terms anyway! That if I win he gets the hell out of my face forever!" Yuri throws his hands up in anger. "Why would I _talk_ to him, anyway? Why would I put myself through such torture?? I would GLADLY GOUGE OUT MY OWN EYEBALLS -- _WAIT_." Yuri stops, going ramrod straight in his seat. "Back up a bit there. What did you say again?”

"Yuri?" Mila says warily, and she jerks back when his reply is to swivel in his seat to give her an intense stare.

"You said 'fight'," Yuri says. "An upcoming fight. What is this fight? Is it an official one, not just a spar?" He leans in. "Is it a tournament?"

Mila cocks her head. “…Yes? It’s a tournament.” She glances over Yuri's shoulder, raising her eyebrows at Otabek. “An official tournament.”

"And big? Is it big?” Yuri presses. “He's a professional boxer or something, isn't he? It's gotta be big. Big and televised."

"Yuri," Otabek says slowly, and Yuri whips around to look at him, "MAPPA Stadium, the one right next to this complex, is one of the venues for the 2020 Olympics Boxing Qualification Tournament. The semifinals are tomorrow. Richard Dickson's one of the few contenders left."

"The Olympic trials," Yuri breathes. He turns to face the rink. _OLYMPIC TRIALS!!!_ his mind screams.

"You are such a hermit," Mila says, fond and exasperated. She waves her phone in his face. “Yes, Summer Olympics! Dickson’s fight is particularly notorious because it pits him, a rich and famous professional with about a dozen controversies and a mean right hook,against an _amateur_ boxer, poised to go pro and the boxing world's very own broody darling."

"....A what," Otabek says. 

Yuri resists the urge to point out that Mila probably googled all that, like, 30 minutes after the gym incident, the liar. "Broody darling won't win you anything," he tells her instead, before he turns to Otabek and demands, "So? Is his opponent any good? Or will he just brood his way out of a punch?”

"Uh, I don't know about the... broody darling," Otabek says haltingly, like it physically pains him to say those two words. "But -- yeah, yeah, he's good," he finally says, clearing his throat. He actually looks like he wants to say more but Mila beats him to the punch.

"My dude," she says, “Such an understatement, that word.” Any other time Yuri would demand why, exactly, is she grinning like a maniac, but she continues, “His amateur boxing record already surpasses most of the all-time greats. He's considered a national hero!" Her eyes are shining with mirth. "Ask Otabek. He knows him."

"Mila," Otabek starts. 

"So he _can_ beat Dickhead?" Yuri asks, turning back to face the rink. The barest bones of A Brilliant Idea are coalescing in his brain. 

"Into a pulp," Mila says gleefully, ignoring Otabek, whose attempting to wordlessly communicate _something_ with her via his eyebrows. 

Any other time, Yuri would ALSO dedicate time and effort into decoding the other man's brows but -- not now, not now, because Mila may be a gossipy old hag but she is as scarily on point in her gossipmongering as she is in her jumps. And if she says Dickhead's going to _lose_ \--

\-- the Idea finally solidifies into a full Plan, looming like a beacon of spite. He can almost imagine it: the backlash, the expression on the boxer's face, the aneurysm Yakov would get, and the tears of pride Viktor 'Drama Queen' Nikiforov-Katsuki would inevitably shed, because it was that fucking _extra_.

"Plisetsky, you're scheming," Mila says. "Out with it."

"Does his opponent have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?” Yuri wonders aloud instead of answering. “Any significant other he's taking to the event?" 

There's a significant pause. 

"No," It was Otabek who answers. "Only family." 

"Good!" Yuri says, smiling wide and bright, and without preamble he stands up, fishes his phone out of his jacket, and turns to Otabek. "Give me his number, please," he says pleasantly, and he holds out his phone. 

Otabek stiffens imperceptibly. "His...opponent's phone number?"

“Yes! You know him, right?” Yuri says, crossing his arms and tilting his head to look him straight in the eye. They were — almost— the same height. "Whoever this winner is, it would be a damn shame for him to go _dateless,_ you know."

"Oh my god," Mila says.

"What?" Yuri turns to ask her, his hands on his hips. " _What?_ Mila, they only said not to approach, talk, or look at Dickson's stupid face!" He wiggles his eyebrows significantly, gesturing madly with his hands. "They never said anything about being in the same vicinity OR blatantly and publicly supporting his opponent RIGHT on the ringside OR cheering along with everyone else when he is KNOCKED THE FUCK DOWN TO THE GROUND!” Yuri ends this in a near-yell. 

Yuri visibly composes himself and then says, much more calmly, “So!” He turns back to Otabek,holding his hand out expectantly. "Phone, please."

Otabek finishes typing and gives the phone back. There was a complicated expression on his face. 

"Of course, shameless draping is on the table, but it’s optional more than anything else. I’ll be sure to tell him that," Yuri tells him primly, his fingers brushing Otabek’s as he takes the device. He opens up a new text message. "But, like, if he's okay with it and we are in perfect view of Dickson's loser face, I am _definitely_ not averse to it."

The other man makes a strangled sound. 

 

Then --

 

"That's so petty," Mila breathes, disbelieving awe seeping into her tone "Oh my god, that's so fucking _petty_. I love it. I love you." She starts laughing madly.

Yuri smirks. ”Hold your horses, Babicheva. I'm still asking. Let's hope he says yes," he says, painstakingly careful with what he's typing. “I won't do this if he doesn't want to. If nothing else, I'm going to grab Phichit. That man is _savage_ in his tags."

"Yuri," Mila admonishes. "How can you forget me? Or Viktor and Yuuri? Or Christopher and Emil and all the others we can drag? Up your game, Plisetsky, I know you're hot but can you _imagine_ all of us there? Cheering and beautiful?”

"You make a compelling point for once, old hag. As long as you lift Georgi with one hand, I’m game. Let's see Dickson piss his pants."

"Deal."

And like a spell had been broken, something in Otabek eases. Yuri doesn't have to look at him: he feels it like a sigh caressing his skin, and when Otabek lets out a quiet laugh, Yuri is unable to resist sneaking a peek.  

He fails to do anything close to sneaky.Otabek's looking at him, something soft in his gaze. 

"You're very... prickly," Otabek says, and one corner of his lips curls up, revealing the dimple on his left cheek and _fuck._

Yuri bares his teeth and says " _Bite_ me _,_ Altin," before he quickly looks back down because FOCUS, PLISETSKY. 

He finishes the message, rereads one more time, and ---

 \-- damn, he almost forgot. 

"Wait," Yuri says. "Wait, shit. Who _is_ he fighting, anyway?"

Mila immediately bursts out laughing again, great, heaving gales of laughter that echo around the rink

Any other time, Yuri would react — violently — but at present he is completely, _helplessly_ distracted.

Because Otabek --- 

\-- Otabek's soft gaze shifts into something else, something warm and molten, and the small smile that slowly, slowly stretches his lips shows a hint of teeth. 

 

( _Oh_.)

 

"Me."

 

—-

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hand-waved all the figure skating competitions and boxing tournament schedules and the impossibility of athletes being this free when their season is in full swing. Like, for real. Time is a construct, especially when I wrote this because:
> 
> 1.) The concept of Otabek having a younger, adorable sister is !!! The concept of Otabek’s sister + Yuri + figure skating? IT IS !!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> 2.) A gratuitous rewatching of Iron Man 2. That boxing scene was so fucking extra but it was _glorious._ And
> 
> 3.) 50% of my motivation to write is that scene where Yuri Plisetsky, my wrathful son, says the line, "My name is Yuri Plisetsky, and I can crush your head with my thighs.”
> 
> ALSO: Richard Dickson is entirely fictional and an Anomaly Not Based On Anyone Real. He doesn’t reflect my opinions or the views of any real athletes. Like, bro, have you seen figure skaters train. For real. 
> 
>    
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
>    
> itsjustaminorheadwound - > my tumblr. scream with me. pls.


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